I am a therapy dog handler, and my canine partner and I volunteer at a couple of local schools.

Baldur, if I may be permitted to brag, is a stunning eighty-pound German shepherd with a magnificent black and red coat. I wish I had a dollar for every time someone wants to take a picture of him, and I’m used to him getting a lot of attention when we go out.

One of the schools in town is designated as a sort of conduit for the children from recently arrived immigrant families who do not speak much English yet. They improve their language skills with bilingual teachers, and they are mainstreamed into other district schools when they’re ready. 

We started there last fall, and after the first session was over, the two of us began walking across the playground to where I had parked my car.

The playground was teeming with kindergartners, and as we passed, they parted like the Red Sea in front of Charlton Heston, all of them bouncing up and down, pointing and chattering in Spanish — a language I do not speak. Their excitement was palpable, and I admit that I was basking a bit in Baldur’s reflected glory — although it was unusual that none of them were running up to pet him.

It wasn’t until the next week that one of the teachers pulled me aside and informed me that the children thought they were seeing a wolf.

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This is the story of how I got fired for being on time.

I was working for a meat-processing plant. We processed hogs. The plant manager had a policy that if you weren’t fifteen minutes early to your shift, you were late. We had to arrive at work fifteen minutes early. This time wasn’t paid, as we were not expected to work. Instead, he had us sit in the breakroom so that we could all come on shift at the same time and relieve the last shift all at the same time. We were not even paid for the time we spent walking from the breakroom to our positions on the line. We were only paid the moment our shift started, which was also the moment that we took over from the previous shift.

Obviously, I know now that this is many types of illegal, but I was barely seventeen, abnormally strong, kind of stupid, and just happy to be paid more than my age per hour.

Here’s the problem. I am autistic (diagnosed at the time) and have ADD (undiagnosed at the time). Waiting in that breakroom physically hurt. It was actively painful. Every second beat upon my brow like death’s ticking pulse.

It started with a sensation of restlessness. I could not sit still. I would start twitching, or squeezing, or bouncing in my chair. It was as though my whole body itched. Then, I’d get a burning sensation behind my eyes, which would spread and move down from my eyes to my chest. The loud noises from the line would become louder, echoing in my brain, and I wouldn’t be able to hear the conversations of those around me as my heart beating in my ears drowned it out.

And then the buzzer would ring to signify it was time to walk to our places on the line so we could take them over at the precise second of the second buzzer.

I brought a Gameboy Color to avoid the sensation, only to have it swatted out of my hand by the manager. I learned that we were not permitted to play video games while waiting. I tried with a discman (this was before iPods, though early MP3 players existed), but also no joy. I brought a paper book, but I was also told to put that away. 

The only things we were permitted to do in the breakroom were chat and drink coffee.

So, I started getting there later and later. 

Work was forty-five minutes from home on a good day. I had basically unlimited permission to drive my dad’s car, which helped me get to and from.

At first, I would just show up exactly on the fifteen-minute mark that the manager demanded. But… fifteen minutes of grueling wait while my adrenal system activated for no good reason was too painful. I dreaded it, and the dread made it harder and harder to stop reading, playing video games, studying, writing, or any of the other myriad things I did in the morning before work.

When it started, I was only a little “late” — showing up fourteen minutes before my shift instead of fifteen. Then twelve. That was the first time I officially got a warning, and that kept me around fourteen to thirteen minutes for a while. 

Then, I slipped again. Ten minutes. Eight. Five. My second warning.

Finally, one day, I arrived two minutes before the buzzer to signify that we needed to walk onto the line to take our positions. After I got done with my shift, the manager took me aside and let me go.

I wasn’t that bothered. It was a summer job, and I would have school again soon. 

I did learn a lesson from it, perhaps not the one that NAR would have preferred me to learn, and perhaps not the one that the manager would have preferred I learned, but it was a lesson my dad knew very well.

The next time I found a place to work, I quickly learned all of their systems and took over underserved roles to a degree that firing me quickly became unthinkable, taking full advantage of the different way my brain processed the world to do things a neurotypical person couldn’t — at the cost (to work) of forcing my place of work to put up with my personal quirks.

This is how I’ve operated at work, both as a senior accountant and as a Maintenance Lead, ever since.

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Author of this story here. This story reminded me of the one time I’ve seen a coin-operated microwave in person.

Dad and I were visiting Grandma in some sort of medical facility. I was young and don’t really remember the details well enough to tell you why she was there.

I was small. It was around lunchtime. Grandma got a meal served by the medical staff, and Dad “wasn’t hungry”. As an adult, I recognize that he was probably stressed to h*** and back by whatever put Grandma into the medical facility, but as a child, I really didn’t understand.

I had a TV dinner, bought from a gas station during the drive to Indiana, that I was supposed to cook and eat. With the help of the staff, I found my way to the microwave. It was coin-operated and cost ten cents a minute, so I went back to Dad and told him I needed some coins to warm up my TV dinner.

Dad didn’t believe me. I offered to take him, physically, to the microwave and show him that it was coin-operated. He didn’t want to leave Grandma alone. I offered that HE should take the TV dinner to the microwave and run it. He didn’t want to leave me alone with Grandma.

I decided to investigate the room for a solution. I found a hairdryer, somehow, and in full view of my father in the room, I used it to heat up my TV dinner. It took a long time. Then, I ate.

Dad didn’t comment on this at all. In retrospect, I think he just wasn’t paying any attention at all. Dad and Grandma were speaking with one another quietly the whole time.

Later on, Dad decided he was hungry after all and wandered off to the microwave. When he came back, confusion was evident in his voice.

Dad: “Did you know the microwave was coin-operated?”

Me: “…Yup.”

Dad: “I’ve never seen a coin-operated microwave before.”

Me: “Nope.”

Dad: “How did you heat up your food? Did you find a normal microwave?”

Me: “No. I did not.”

I was vaguely aware that it was incorrect to use the hairdryer, and not according to the instructions on the TV dinner, and I was somewhat afraid of getting in trouble about it, so my stupid child mind decided that I could not explain how I heated the TV dinner aloud.

Instead, I deliberately picked up the hairdryer and waved it at Dad.

Dad: “So, you just ate it cold?”

Me: “No. I didn’t.”

I attempted to put the hairdryer into his hand, and he brushed it away.

Dad: “So, how did you cook it?”

Me: *Pointedly* “I dunno. I just did. Here.”

He took the hairdryer from me and looked at it, confused. Then he put it back down and visibly put the entire question out of his mind unanswered, though he shot me a few more puzzled looks throughout the day.

Of course, he paid for his own meal to actually be microwaved.

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Do you want to hear another story about Peter, the much loved, special employee at the Swiss police? Most of this takes place in German, which Peter understands. He only replies in broken English, but he really prefers sign language. 

We are eating breakfast in the canteen. A uniformed officer sprints across the canteen and out the fire exit, followed by… Superman, with a supersoaker. [Officer] is also a reserve in the army. This happens in German, except for Peter in English.

Officer: *In German* “Don’t shoot!”

Superman is shouting at the officer in English.

Officer #2: *To me* “Is that Peter? What was that?”

The Brigadier at the next table speaks up.

Brigadier: “Enough nonsense. I’ll deal with him. Get the detective who knows sign language.”

Me: *Going outside* “Is that you, Peter? The Brigadier would like to speak to you.”

They both return to the canteen. Superman takes his mask off. Ten seconds pass.

Peter: “[Brigadier’s First Name], can I help you?”

I’ve never heard him say a full sentence before.

Brigadier: “Set the water pistol down on the table. Why are you chasing [Officer], and what are you shouting?”

Officer: “He hid in my locker!”

Peter: *Ignoring him* “Firearms. Locker, unlocked. Always.”

Peter assigns lockers to police officers, but sometimes they don’t lock them.

Me: “Whatever he’s shouting… it sounds familiar. I’m not sure.”

Brigadier: “Why is that an excuse to hide in his locker and chase him with a water pistol?”

Peter: “Gun. Must be locked. Priority, public safety. I reminded, didn’t work. Weapon is Lethal and ‘I’m too old for this s***.’”

(I crack up at the “Lethal Weapon” reference. A detective calls who speaks German Sign Language, Peter’s preferred speech. She has interpreted for him before. I point the phone camera at Peter.)

Me: “Guns get stored in lockers, and they obviously have to be locked or the gun could go missing or get stolen. Locker security is Peter’s responsibility. His methods are crazy, if effective. I haven’t seen him chase a police officer, let alone in a superhero costume.”

Brigadier: “What else did you try?”

Peter: “Remove locker door. Fill locker with bricks. Meme, cartoons on locker.”

He looks at my phone and says something in sign language, which the detective translates.

Detective: “I… erm… Embarrassing the officer with lingerie was not effective. That’s what he said. Peter would like to show you the locker.”

Brigadier: “Lingerie embarrass… What?!”

We all go to [Officer]’s locker. It contains the normal equipment, like a uniform and documents… and a female mannequin, in lingerie.

Me: *Laughing* “Peter, what… what did you do?”

Peter: *Via the detective* “I put the mannequin and lingerie here last week. The point is, if he doesn’t want rubbish like this in his locker, he only needs to lock it. He still didn’t lock it. So, this morning, ten minutes before his shift started, I hid in his locker as Superman.”

Me: “Where did you get all of this from?”

Peter: *Via the detective* “[Thrift Store] in town. 5CHF (Swiss francs, $5.50) for everything.”

Me: “Why didn’t you just tell his line manager? I know you want to avoid him being disciplined, but…”

I don’t actually know.

Peter: *Via the detective* “I did speak to his line manager, and he paid the 5 francs. Check the expenses report.”

Brigadier: “Thank you for explaining, Peter. [Officer], unless you dispute the facts, we’re done. You’ve been trained in firearm security, and you’re an army veteran. You understand Peter’s pranks. That’s peer pressure. What do you have to say?”

Officer: “…”

Detective: “I have a meeting in five minutes…”

Brigadier: “[Officer], you have a choice: 1) you can teach this to trainees so they can learn from your mistake, 2) Peter can practice shooting you with his water pistol, or 3) you can be formally disciplined for not securing your gun.”

Officer: “Erm… Can I…”

Brigadier: “Peter, you can drive, right? Do you like shooting things with a water pistol?”

Peter: “Yes! Great fun!”

Brigadier: “The senior firearms instructor at the shooting range will give you a masterclass in shooting. Go get your water pistol from the canteen, and a cop car. Take [Officer] there now. The firearms instructor is expecting you. We will have a meeting next week about how to make officers lock their guns away and what we can learn from it. Understood?”

Peter: *After a four-second pause* “See you next week, [First Name] Brigadier.”

Me: “Wait… [Detective], ask Peter what he was shouting when he chased [Officer].”

[Detective] talks to Peter in sign language.

Detective: “He called [Officer] a ‘hosenscheisser’ and ‘evolutionbremse’ — ‘trouser pooper’ and ‘brake on evolution’. In English, it just sounds silly. Peter knows it sounds silly, and he’s used that to dramatic effect. They don’t have insults like that.”

The detective ends the call, and Peter and [Officer] leave.

Brigadier: “If I’d been asked about lingerie and the Superman costume, I would have said absolutely not. Now that it has happened, it worked. It could work well across the rest of the Swiss police.”

[Officer]’s locker has always been locked since, the mannequin was returned to the thrift store, and the Superman costume is kept at Peter’s desk. [Officer] turned out to be a good police officer, who learned his lesson without being formally disciplined. Thanks, Peter.

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Author of these three stories here. Here’s another story about how dumb my dad was when I was growing up.

In late high school, I had permission to drive Dad’s car pretty much whenever I wanted to. I drove it way more than he did, and I was the primary mode of transport for my group of friends.

A few days before the fourth of July, I was driving on the highway with my friends in the car, and someone in the car ahead of us started throwing lit explosives out their window.

BANG! POP! BANG!

The loud noises bothered my autism.

Then, I heard a loud pop from under the car. I thought maybe it was one of the explosives. After that, the car started driving funny; it now had a distinct pull to the left. So, after I was done hanging out with my friends and I brought the car home, I told my dad about it.

The exact words I said were important because he took offense to them and refused to listen. I was too autistic to rephrase myself, and he was too autistic to listen. What I said every time was:

Me: “When I was driving on [Street], someone in the car in front of us started throwing firecrackers out the window. I heard a pop from under the car, and the car started driving differently; there’s a strong veer to the left.”

And every time, this was his response:

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

Me: “Nevertheless, there was a pop under the car, and the car started veering left.”

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

At that point, I gave up.

We had that exact conversation multiple times that summer. Dad eventually took the car to the mechanic for routine maintenance and found that something underneath was bent or broken, causing the car to veer to the left.

Dad: “[My Name], why didn’t you tell me the car was driving funny?”

Me: “I’ve already told you many times. You just never listened to me. A few days before the fourth of July, when I was driving on [Street], someone in the car in front of us started throwing firecrackers out the window. I heard a pop from under the car, and the car started driving differently; there was a strong veer to the left. Every time I’ve told you this, you’ve said, ‘Firecrackers can’t do that,’ instead of listening to me.”

Dad: “Firecrackers can’t do that.”

Me: “Yeah, that.”

Dad: “But why didn’t you tell me?”

Frustrated, I walked away into my room, locked the door, and read fiction until I calmed down.

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